Oliver was happy enough to take both Clare and Nif to Clinton’s that evening after the office shared an early dinner of pizza, Leon’s shout. Nif had texted the group to see if it was okay to bring Clare along and the group had been fine with it. Perhaps the more people there would somehow ease the pain of Morris’s absence.
“You don’t mind if we collect Moira on the way?” Oliver had actually packaged up a few slices of vegetarian pizza for her.
“Not at all. Thanks for driving us.”
“Is there space for the muffins to go in the back?” Clare asked, carrying a box that was so high, she could barely see over it.
“That’s full of muffins?” Oliver exclaimed, quickly taking it from her and grunting in surprise at the weight.
“Well, I asked Yong-Shen from To Bean or Not to Bean to keep some aside for me and she said we could have all the day’s leftovers, though I suspect Huan baked another batch because I swear they’re still warm.” Clare tidied her hair under a scarf, and looped her arm fondly through Nif’s.
“There was no need to bring anything,” Oliver said, struggling to open the boot without dropping the muffins.
“I wanted to. You should never meet family without a gift, and this support group has been wonderful for Nif. It’s the least I can do to thank you all.”
“Aww, Clare. That’s so sweet of you.” Nif hugged her arm.
Today had been a good reminder that there were people who truly cared about her. It was times like these, with friends like the ones she had, that she decided she wouldn’t mind all that much if she never found one single person to spend the rest of her life with. Why couldn’t she spend her life with lots of people? She glanced over at Oliver and blushed. But maybe she had found someone after all.
They squeezed the muffin box beside a crate of Oliver’s last signed book and bags of drinks he’d purchased for the evening, and Clare climbed into the backseat while Nif took the front passenger.
“Where does Clinton live?” Nif asked.
“I’ve only been there once. It’s not all that far from Moira’s uni actually.”
Moira attended the University of McGlade, one of the city’s smaller universities, but also one of the oldest.
It was the kind of place that had weddings every second weekend on the expansive lawns beneath the massive evergreen trees and the jacarandas that painted the campus purple during late spring and summer. During winter, it had an oddly cosy feel about it. The sandstone buildings were tucked together like jigsaw puzzles, providing plenty of nooks to study, and it was always well-lit, the lamps casting a warm golden glow that made it feel like you’d stepped into a love story. It was one of the universities Nif had considered before she’d settled to the one closer to her hometown.
“Moira has a basement office over in the Edwina Clancy Building,” Oliver explained as he parked in a mostly empty carpark over by the old chapel. “If she starts early and finishes late, she sometimes doesn’t see the sun at all.”
“Sounds awful,” Clare murmured from the backseat.
“She loves it. The research is her life and at least she doesn’t have to share her office space like the creative PhDs have to. I’ll text her I’m here, but if she’s not out in fifteen, I’ll go in after her. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s forgotten to charge her phone and reception in her office is patchy at best.”
But they weren’t waiting long when Moira dashed across the courtyard, almost slipping as she rounded a park bench too quickly, juggling a massive backpack and an arm full of books. She flung open the back door and piled in, letting in a brisk rush of winter air.
“Greetings everyone. God it’s as cold as the devil’s tits out there. Oh, hello.” Moira had crammed her bag at her feet and had realised the person sitting beside her was a stranger.
“Hi, I’m Clare. A friend of Nif’s.” Clare offered a hand and Moira reached out and held it.
“I’m Moira.”
Nif twisted uncomfortably in her chair, Moira’s cold pizza in her lap, to watch them shyly smile at each other. She glanced at Oliver and he shrugged.
“Buckle up, kiddo. We’ll be late if we don’t get a move on. Got you some pizza so try not to get it on the seat.” Oliver reversed as Moira scrambled to get her seatbelt on before remembering she was still holding Clare’s hand. Nif handed over the pizza once Moira was secured and turned back around, a gleeful smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. How had she not thought the two would make a cute couple before?
“So what’s your research about,” Clare asked and after a small hesitation, Moira began explaining. When Clare proved an avid listener, Moira’s explanations became more enthusiastic and complex until Nif was barely keeping up, the young woman’s pizza being used as a pointer for emphasis. Clare didn’t seem to mind at all though Oliver winced when the cheese topping brushed the car roof.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Clinton’s house wasn’t that far at all. A bare ten minute drive and there was plenty of parking on a wide residential street lined with massive wintery-bare trees. The property was more modern than she expected. Clean lines and large windows overlooked a quietly sleeping garden. In spring, the beds would be lush with flowers and growth.
They bundled out of the car, the icy evening air biting at Nif’s lungs, and Clare, Oliver and Nif carried in the muffins and the bags of drinks. Moira bounded ahead and rang the doorbell, a light chirping sound, and bounced impatiently on her toes.
The door opened to reveal an older woman dressed smartly and wearing heavy duty boots. Her silver hair was tied back in a sensible, neat plait and her warm brown skin wrinkled around her dark eyes as she smiled.
“Hello everyone.”
That voice struck Nif with an equal sense of comfort and grief, and for a moment she was back on her hallway floor, Morris’s death a white hot burn in her chest.
“Thea. It’s been ages.” Oliver gave her a gentle hug. The woman was much shorter than Nif had imagined.
“It’s been far too long. Come in. Come in.” She stepped back and they all filed into the front hall. No one else took their shoes off, so Nif kept hers on. The wooden floorboards were well worn and the walls were covered in framed photographs, all of them black and white and of stunning landscapes: deserts at night, stormy seas, forests dense and wet.
“You must be Jennifer,” Thea said, allowing Oliver and Moira to go ahead. “I’m glad to finally meet you in person.” Her voice was rough, but it reminded Nif of campfire smoke, warm and reassuring. Nif imagined the older woman would be the anchor during a crisis at work, making sure the right things were being done by the right people.
“That’s me. It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person. This is my friend Clare,” Nif said, pulling Clare forward from where she’d been shyly lurking behind her. “Clare this is Thea. Clinton’s partner.”
“You’ve all had a rough few weeks. Clinton is making hot drinks for everyone in the kitchen.”
“I brought muffins,” Clare murmured, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Oliver has them.”
“That sounds wonderful. Something sweet to finish off the day. Come on through.” They followed Thea down the hallway to an open-plan kitchen spilling out onto a large enclosed patio. A massive twelve seat table carved from one piece of wood took up most of the space and the rest of the support group were gathered around it.
“Should we heat them up?” Oliver called from the kitchen. He was opening the muffin box and carefully lifting out the cardboard dividers. There had to be at least a dozen or so muffins of various kinds inside.
“Here, I’ll help,” Clare said, fluttering around him and Moira meandered over to watch, but her gaze continued to drift towards Clare. Nif managed to catch her eye and the younger woman blushed a delightful pink.
Clinton was by the stove, stirring two massive pots releasing the scent of nutmeg, cinnamon and orange.
“Hi Clinton,” Nif said, peering over into one of the pots. “What are you making? It smells divine.”
“It’s Gluhwein. My grandmother’s recipe. One batch has alcohol for those not driving.” He gave a pot another stir and then gently rested the long handled spoon on the counter, leaning back against it to look Nif over. “How are you traveling?”
“I’m okay,” she said, shrugging. Nif looked over to Josephine and Philippa sitting at the end of the table, busily twisting what looked like twigs together with ribbon and twine. The women were hollow echoes of their usual selves, their outfits still matching but made of subdued greys and browns. When Nif automatically searched the room for Morris, her chest froze up as she remembered she’d never see him again.
“Maybe not right now, but you will be,” Clinton said softly. “Think you can help me carry one of these to the table? They’re done.”
Thea rested two cork mats at one end of the table to protect the wood and Moira brought eight mugs, all different shapes and sizes. Not the cheap touristy mugs you’d find at airports but handmade ones discovered in the heart of cities or in small markets. Nif rested her gluhwein pot on its mat and inhaled deeply. She was pretty sure she had the one with alcohol.
“Here,” Thea said, offering her a ladle.
“Muffins are done,” Oliver announced, and he and Clare carried them out on a large chopping board.
“These look lovely,” Josephine said, selecting a strawberry and coconut one.
“Oh, right,” Nif said. “Everyone, this is my friend Clare. Purveyor of muffins. Clare, you’ve met Thea, Moira and obviously Oliver. Over there is Clinton, Thea’s partner and the organiser of this group, and this is Josephine and that’s Philippa.”
“It’s nice to meet you all,” Clare said in her soft, sweet voice. “Please, enjoy the muffins.”
Nif served the gluhwein, and only Oliver, Moira and Thea drank the non-alcoholic version. Everyone else was determined to blunt the edges of their grief and worries with generous mugs of alcohol.
Once everyone had a muffin and a hot drink, they settled down at the table and a thick silence wrapped around them.
“We’re all grieving the loss of Morris,” Clinton finally said. “He was our friend. An artist who had so much more to share with the world.”
Moira sniffed deeply and Clare offered her a lacy hanky from her purse.
“He told me once how much this group meant to him. How each of you had helped him build his confidence, to remind him of what was most important, to not let the challenges of being a partial shifter limit him.” Clinton paused. Took a deep breath. “I’m grateful we were able to share his last night. I’d never seen him happier than when he was showing off his paintings to us for the first time. I only regret it was the last time, too.”
Nif’s throat tightened, pressure radiating down into her chest and she bit her cheek, trying to ground her pain in something physical.
Josephine reached beneath the table and squeezed her hand, her skin warm from cradling the hot drink. Nif held on tightly, eyes fixed to a polished whirl in the table’s wood.
“We’ll all miss him terribly.” Clinton lifted his mug and everyone mimicked him. “We’ll never forget.”
“To Morris,” Oliver said and we echoed him. Nif took a deep swallow, washing down the tightness in her throat and imagining the alcohol and spices lighting sparks in the dark grieving spaces inside her.
“Here,” Philippa said from the other side of Josephine. She offered Nif half of her strawberry and coconut muffin.
“Thanks,” Nif whispered, letting go of Josephine to take the proffered muffin. Her love for these people expanded to wrap her in a blanket of comfort and strength.